The Queen's man

Chapter Twenty-One

A horse was saddled in the Charlecote stables, ready for Shakespeare as though he were an honoured guest departing. He was surprised but, not relishing a five-mile walk, he took the reins from the groom with good grace and accepted the offer of a leg-up. Without a word or a backward glance, he kicked on and rode for Stratford and the White Lion at a steady pace.

Joshua Peace was at the long table, eating his midday meal a little away from the other diners. He looked alarmed when he caught sight of Shakespeare’s dishevelled appearance.

‘Don’t ask, Mr Peace.’

‘I heard you had been taken. I confess I was at a loss who to turn to.’

‘I will tell you about it in due course. For the moment I want nothing more than a bed.’

‘Would you like me to examine you? I have medical knowledge from my mother, and have garnered a great deal more during my travels in Italy.’

‘I thought you dealt with the dead, Mr Peace.’

‘How can I determine a cause of death if I do not understand the effects of injury and disease in the living?’

‘True enough.’ He smiled. ‘Yes, indeed, Mr Peace, I would be most grateful if you could put me back together.’

Shakespeare stood naked in the centre of his chamber, while Joshua Peace washed him down with remarkable gentleness, taking extra care to use a light touch at the sites of bruises and lesions, particularly on the face and head.

‘I do not think I have been washed by another since I was a babe, Mr Peace. Thank you.’

‘Washing bodies is part of my job.’

Shakespeare laughed. ‘Do I look like a corpse?’

‘No, but I will tell you that you are fortunate to be alive and in possession of your senses. The blows to your temples could have done severe damage, if not killed you. I have seen men suffer lifelong palsy from such injuries.’

‘That is most reassuring.’

‘I can tell you more, too, when you are rested.’

‘Tell me now.’

‘Very well. I have heard men talk, here at this inn. There is great fear in town.’

‘Who do they fear? The pursuivants? The priests?’

‘Perhaps both. They speak of change and distrust. Uncertainty has become a malaise. They have seen murder and violence and they fear for their own safety. They speak of Sir Thomas Lucy’s ruffians in hushed tones. I heard them talk of your abduction, but none thought to help you. They know something bad is happening, but they do not know what. In particular, they do not know who is on their side.’

‘Well, perhaps they are right to be afraid. But that is why you and I must keep clear heads and bring these matters to a speedy and just conclusion. Have you heard from the coroner? Is there any word of an inquest?’

Peace shook his head and wrung out the linen cloth with which he had been cleaning Shakespeare. A trickle of pink-brown water dripped into the pewter bowl on the coffer at his side. He studied Shakespeare’s lean, muscular body for a moment, then smiled. ‘You will survive. Now take to your bed, Mr Shakespeare, and sleep.’

‘No, I cannot yet. There is something I must do.’

Shakespeare ate in his room, then took leave of Peace and headed for Arden Lodge, one of his cousin Edward’s homes, three or four miles to the west of Stratford. As he rode along the pathway to the front of the large manor house, a pistol shot split the air. His horse jinked and whinnied but he tugged at the reins to bring the animal to a halt and under control.

He looked right, for that was where the sound seemed to have come from. Was it his imagining, or was that the shadow of a man disappearing around the far wall of the house? He looked left. A hole had been gouged into the yew tree not three feet from his shoulder. Someone had shot at him, and had not missed by far.

Kicking on into a canter, he rode hard for the corner of the stone-built house where he thought he had seen the figure. A small gate barred his way. In one smooth movement, his injuries forgotten, he jumped from the saddle, knotted the reins together and slung them over the gatepost to tether the horse. He then drew his sword and eased the gate open.

An exquisite garden lay before him in intricate patterns and colours. In a square, perhaps ninety feet at each side, was a dizzying arrangement of borders and small hedges, all made of herbs, exuding a heady late-summer fragrance. Lavender and thyme, rosemary and marjoram and bay.

Kneeling with his back to him, clippers in hand, was a man in a wide-brimmed hat, whom he took to be the gardener. Shakespeare approached him silently. ‘Turn around very slowly. Do not make a move.’

The man froze, but obeyed. His eyes were wide. He looked timid and uncertain, but that did not mean he was unarmed. A man could easily conceal a loaded wheel-lock pistol in a capacious sleeve, or behind a bank of box hedging.

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Hall, sir. Hugh Hall. I am the gardener.’

‘Stand up, with your hands open to me.’

The man did as he was bidden. He was not tall. Perhaps four inches over five feet. There was little in his appearance to suggest he was a gardener. His skin was pale, as though deliberately protected from the ravages of the summer sun. True gardeners cared nothing for such vanity.

‘Where is Mr Arden?’

‘In the house, sir, I do believe.’

‘You heard a pistol report?’

He seemed about to deny it, but the shake of the head turned into a nod of reluctant confirmation. ‘I heard something, sir, like the crack of a whip. I did not know what it was.’

‘Was it you?’

‘No, sir. No, indeed, I promise you.’

‘Who then? I saw someone run into this garden.’

The gardener hesitated a moment too long. ‘I saw no one. There was no one.’

Shakespeare touched his swordpoint to the man’s chest. ‘You are lying. Come, Mr Hall — if that is your name — take me to your master. Be careful how you go, lest you slip on to my blade.’

They found Edward Arden in his library on the far side of the house. A pistol lay on the table, still smoking. The stink of burnt gunpowder was sharp to the nostrils.

‘Cousin John, you must accept my apologies.’

Shakespeare lowered his sword and replaced it in the scabbard. Arden took his hand in greeting. ‘My fool of a son-in-law thought you were a squirrel, so he says.’

‘You mean John Somerville?’

‘He has the wit and eyesight of a worm. Believes he saw movement in the yew and fired. Then he heard your horse and realised his error before scuttling away like a frightened rabbit.’

‘I do not call that poor eyesight, cousin, I call it blindness.’

Arden tapped his head twice with his forefinger. ‘I think he is not sound. . if you take my meaning.’

Shakespeare nodded towards the spent weapon. ‘In which case, do you think it wise to allow him access to that?’

‘Forgive me. I must take responsibility for this unfortunate incident. Happily he would be hard pressed to hit an oak tree from two feet, so I suspect you were never in danger.’

No, Shakespeare thought. No, you cannot write off this incident so easily. John Somerville shot a pistol at me and I could have been killed. And if Somerville was deranged, then the man who allowed him the liberty of his house with a gun was either equally mad, or culpable. This was nothing to do with squirrels.

‘I have offered to have some spectacles made for him, but he will not have it,’ Arden continued. ‘He says his eyes are as good as a hawk’s. Hah!’ He laughed lightly.

‘Where is he now?’ Shakespeare was unamused.

‘I will deal with the pig’s pizzle in my own way.’

No, thought Shakespeare, I will deal with him in my own way. But there was time enough for that. ‘I suggest you relieve him of his pistol permanently,’ he said. It might be wise, too, he thought ruefully, to remove his tongue if everything Will had told him about Somerville’s threats to the Queen were true.

‘You have met Mr Hall, the gardener? He has constructed a fine example of the art, do you not think?’

‘A most agreeable garden, but that is not the reason I am here.’

‘No, I rather thought it was not.’ Arden glanced towards the gardener. ‘You may go, Hugh. Ask for some wine to be brought, if you would.’ He turned back to Shakespeare. ‘Now, tell me, why are you here?’

Arden’s voice was still cordial, but Shakespeare detected a hostile edge to it. Shakespeare pressed on. ‘You have heard of the death of Benedict Angel, no doubt, and the attacks on his home. I assume, too, that you know of the invective hurled at you by Sir Thomas Lucy and those who ride out for him?’

‘What of it, John? Do you think I give a rotted turnip for the opinion of Lucy or his puppet-master?’

‘I take it you mean the Earl of Leicester?’

‘You know I do. The whole world knows what I think of them. Leicester pulls the strings and Lucy jumps like a monkey on hot coals. His plan is clear: with Walsingham’s aid, he will keep the Queen unwed, put Mary’s head on the block and raise up his own kin to be king of this realm.’

‘This is absurd. Leicester has no claim to the throne.’

‘But his sister’s family does. Katherine Dudley is married to the Earl of Huntingdon, who must be first in line if the Stuarts are discounted.’

Shakespeare laughed dismissively. ‘This is old and hoary. The mad delusions of Cardinal Allen and his acolytes who accuse Leicester of every sin known and many more invented in the dark sweaty nights of a single man’s seminary cot.’

Edward Arden gave Shakespeare a hard look. ‘You have turned from the true path, John. I had thought you better than that. When you were a boy, I had great hopes for you.’

Arden looked exactly what he was: a gentleman of middle years with standing among the gentry. A former high sheriff of the county, he was still undisputed head of his family. As a child, Shakespeare had been here at Arden Lodge each year for the summer fair, an annual event for Arden’s workers, parishioners and extended family. The Ardens were a family who had long dominated this county. He recalled being picked up and displayed by Arden when he was five or six. The great man had laughed and shown him off as though he were a prize pup. ‘So this is your fine fellow, is it, Mary? I say he is an Arden through and through,’ he boomed. ‘Arden blood, not Shakespeare.’

Here and now, in this room, he noticed that while his elder cousin still looked the county gentleman, there was an unfamiliar weariness, as though the defiance had turned to recklessness. Perhaps the long-standing and relentless feud with the Earl of Leicester and Sir Thomas Lucy was taking its toll on Arden’s reasoning.

The feud between Edward Arden and Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, was the stuff of legend in these parts. Arden, very publicly and very clearly, had called the earl ‘whoremaster’.

Whoremaster!

It had come about seven years ago when Arden had heard that the Earl of Leicester was idling away the night hours between the legs of Lettice Knollys, who was another man’s wife. And nor did he stop there. When summoned to appear at a grand pageant in Kenilworth attired in the earl’s livery — the blue coat and silver badge of the bear and ragged staff — Arden refused.

No one refused such an honour. No one insulted Leicester and slept well.

And now, it seemed, that blood feud was being waged on Leicester’s behalf by his lackey Sir Thomas Lucy. Was Arden beginning to understand what he had done? His defiant Catholicism must be costing him a great deal in recusancy fines — the penalty for refusing to attend the parish church. The truth was, Edward Arden was badly tainted by his past. Words that might have seemed like knightly boldness and audacity now sounded like treason. A great deal had changed in England in recent years and it was becoming increasingly difficult to cleave to the old faith. The days when the Queen refused to make windows into men’s souls were gone. Regnans in Excelsis — Pope Pius V’s Bull of Excommunication — had seen to that even before Arden’s ill-judged insult to the Queen’s favourite. The excommunication meant Catholics were now told it would be no sin to murder her. And so they became her enemy.

‘It is not my place to give you advice, cousin,’ Shakespeare continued, ‘but I would be failing in my duty to you as a kinsman if I did not come to warn you that I fear for your safety. As your friend and cousin I must tell you that the Earl of Leicester is a dangerous man, and he has not forgiven you. He bears a grudge, and if you are not exceeding careful, he will have his revenge.’

‘And you came here to tell me that, did you, John? That is no news to me.’

‘Then I will now address you as a government officer. And I will ask you this: who has been harbouring Benedict Angel?’

A curious expression crossed Arden’s brow, but he quickly recovered his composure. ‘What makes you think I know anything of Benedict Angel?’

‘He must have been staying with the Catholic gentry in these parts. If not you, then with the Catesbys or Throckmortons. And I know your wife to be a Throckmorton.’

‘Bull’s bollocks, John, I will not listen to this. Are you a pursuivant now? Do you ride with Lucy’s men?’

‘At the moment, I am your cousin, for I am not persuaded that you are a traitor. But if I had proof otherwise, my attitude towards you would change very quickly. And I must tell you this: there are those on the Privy Council who are not persuaded of your innocence.’

‘Hah. Let me guess their names — Leicester, Walsingham, Burghley. The unholy trinity.’

‘Mr Secretary Walsingham is my master. I will not hear ill spoken of him.’

‘He is the devil.’

‘I will not tolerate such talk. Once I have left this house, our kinship will be no more. We will not be cousins. I will investigate you as hard as any pursuivant, for I fear you have secrets. This son-in-law of yours — Somerville — he goes into the world with threats against Her Majesty’s person. He fires shots at riders walking their horses up to your front gate. And your gardener, Mr Hall, what precisely is he? What is going on here at this house?’

‘Go, Shakespeare. Get out. I said once that you were an Arden, but you are not.’

‘Will you answer me? I have other questions, too.’ Has a one-armed Frenchman been here? Who is hiding at your other grand properties such as Park Hall in the north of the county? What secrets are concealed here at Arden Lodge?

‘Go. I will not trim my religion to suit you or Leicester or any other damned heretic. Go, I say.’

It seemed for a moment that Arden’s hand was moving towards the spent pistol on the coffer. Shakespeare’s own hand went once more to his sword. Arden’s hand hovered and stopped; so did Shakespeare’s.

Though the very thought made the bile rise in his gullet, a bitter conclusion was forming in Shakespeare’s brain: that Leicester and Sir Thomas Lucy were correct in their estimation of the bubbling treason in the county. There was a problem here — and it did involve Edward Arden.

Without another word, he turned away and strode out. He felt sick. Until this day, he had always liked cousin Edward. Now he realised the cold truth: they were enemies.